


Die Hand Die Verletzt

by 30xf



Series: 201 Days Of X Files [38]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:11:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/30xf/pseuds/30xf





	Die Hand Die Verletzt

I awake with a start, taking only a second to recognize my surroundings before I close my eyes and let out a long sigh. Looking towards the adjoining door of the next room, I see a sliver of light under it and know Mulder is awake. Moving slowly, I stretch and get out of bed, fumbling around in the dark until I find my suitcase, and then dig through it until my fingers recognize the lace of a bra. Once my bra is on under my pajamas (I sometimes sleep in one while on cases to save time when dressing in an emergency), I approach the adjoining door. 

I know Mulder has a habit of watching--questionable--programming at times, so I hold my breath for a moment and listen. The TV is definitely on, but it seems to be the muted sounds of the news, or some kind of documentary. A quiet rustle of paper confirms I won't be interrupting anything he'd rather I didn't know about. I open my side of the door and knock gently on his and he almost immediately responds, "S'open."

I leave both doors open and take a couple steps in. Mulder looks at me, just a quick head to toe, and is back at his work. It looks like old newspapers he's going through, most likely looking for evidence of past encounters with the occult in this area.

"Where'd you get these?" I ask, picking one up to look at the front page.

"Got them at the library when we were there today. Everything alright? I thought you went to bed," he folds up his paper, probably less carefully than he should judging by the antiqued colour of it. 

"I did," I sigh, dropping the newspaper on the bed and sitting at the table a couple feet away. I fold my arms on it and rest my head there, in much the same way my primary school teachers used to make us do when they required quiet and calm. Mulder is sideways in my view as he gathers papers up into piles, perhaps just realizing what time it is.

"What woke you up?" he asks.

"Frogs," is all I say. I turn my attention to the TV, which is neither the news nor a documentary. It's actually an old black and white movie that at the moment is focused on a man and a woman passionately kissing in that way that all old movie couples kiss--simply pressing their lips together and moving their heads a little from side to side. It doesn't seem pleasurable or comfortable for either of them. I'm sure it must have been a decency standard for film back then. If not, whoever introduced the world to French kissing must have been treated like a god.

Mulder, having cleared off his bed, dumps all the papers only a few inches from my head. "Frogs?" he asks, sitting in the chair opposite me.

I sigh, creating condensation inside the bend of my arm. "One day I'll have a job where I don't get woken up in the middle of the night by dreams of hundreds of frogs falling on my head."

He actually chuckles a little and if I weren't so tired, I'd hit him. "There weren't hundreds of frogs, Scully. Maybe fifty."

"In the dream there was hundreds. And we didn't have umbrellas to soften the impact." I stretch my legs out under the table, crossing them at the ankles, and encounter his feet, encroaching on my space, as usual. We adjust slightly so that our feet are resting against each other.

Mulder yawns and leans one elbow on the table, resting his head in his hand. "And what were we doing as these hundreds of frogs rained down on us?"

He's playing with my hair with his free hand. Not in any kind of romantic way, but just sort of pushing it around on the table. I try not to think about when this table was properly cleaned last. "We were just standing in the woods, but I was telling you that the weather report for the day was just cloudy, and you said weather reports are hardly ever right, and then they just came down."

He leans back in his chair and is quiet for so long that I raise my head and look at him. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he looks slightly amused. "You're a complicated woman, Dana Scully."

I frown, my tired mind trying to figure out what he's talking about. "I don't think there's anything to read into with that dream." I think about it and reiterate, "Like...at all."

"I think you're right about that," he stretches his arms over his head. "But with everything going on in this case, the thing your brain decides to focus on while you aren't awake to stop it is the frogs? 

I can see his mind working, trying to analyze me. His profiling comes in very handy for work purposes, but I've never been comfortable in the rare moments he turns it on me. "Stop it," I say simply, a small smile playing at my lips. I get up and head for the door.

"Stop what?" he chuckles.

"Stop trying to profile me. Frogs are not the gateway into the inner workings of my psyche."

"Really? Why are you dreaming about them then?" he calls after me as I head into my room.

"Because it was fucking weird. End of story." I hear him start to laugh as I close the door. 

"Sweet dreams, Scully," is the last thing I hear through the door before I collapse on my bed and crawl under the covers, hoping for dreamless sleep.


End file.
